The Pixel-Lord's review was a curious thing. It felt like a tourist scribbling in a guestbook—"quaint, earnest merchant." It was patronizing, but it was also publicity. Rajendra's Earth-stall in the cosmic bazaar now had a sign.
The result was immediate. Over the next two days, his Auction Interface pinged with new messages, not from high-tier hosts, but from others in the lower tiers—collectors, archivists, oddities enthusiasts.
Host 'Memory-Eater': Seeking primitive mourning rituals. Hair, nail clippings, funerary ash from Tier-0 sentients. Paying in Scrap Coin.
Host 'Flora-Fanatic': Your Allium sativum intrigues. Do you have Cannabis sativa? Premium prices for psychoactive variants.
Host 'Grimm': Require primitive weaponry with historical kills. Blades that have tasted blood. Ritual significance preferred.
He declined them all. He was not a merchant of mourning, drugs, or murder souvenirs. His brand—though he hadn't consciously built one—was emerging: Earth's benign cultural and biological produce. Bollywood and garlic. It was niche, but it was clean.
The real work was earthly. The draft contract for Elena Volkova was prepared by a sharp, expensive lawyer in Fort, paid for with MAKA's electronics profits. It was a masterpiece of obfuscation, leasing "non-arable Siberian land for potential geothermal survey" through a Singaporean shell. It was sent to her Delhi hotel by courier.
The Neural Suggestion Implant on Igor Zubov had worked. Elena called from a hotel phone, her voice laced with bewildered relief. "Zubov… he sent a letter. He says the land seizure review was 'a bureaucratic error.' He has recused himself from my file due to 'potential conflict of interest.' He wishes me luck in my… entrepreneurial ventures." She paused. "What did you do?"
"I resolved a conflict of interest," Rajendra said. "As agreed. Please review the contract."
He heard the unspoken awe in her silence. She was no longer just dealing with a trader; she was dealing with a force.
His balance was low—47.5 VC. He needed to replenish. The Pixel-Lord's bulk order for ten Bollywood films was his immediate project. Using MAKA's network, he sourced original VHS tapes of classics: *Deewaar, Mughal-e-Azam, Mother India, Shree 420, Pyaasa.* Each tape cost him a few hundred rupees. The System's listing fee for cultural artifacts, however, was steep—5 VC per film. To list all ten would cost 50 VC, more than he had.
He had to be strategic. He listed two films first: Deewaar and Pyaasa, spending 10 VC. He offered them in a direct bundle to Pixel-Lord for 40 VC, a discount for bulk. Pixel-Lord accepted immediately. The coins came in. Balance: 77.5 VC.
He used the profit to list the next three, sold them, and repeated the process. It was a cycle of recycling capital. Within a week, all ten films were delivered, and his balance stood at a healthy 102 VC. The business was self-sustaining.
But the mundane world demanded its due. The MANO Pressure Cooker project needed a brand. Shanti Sharma, the university intern, had agreed to freelance market research. Over cups of tea in a Udipi restaurant, she presented her findings: "The Indian housewife trusts durability, safety, and prestige. Your design is good. The name 'MANO' is… abstract. It needs a face. A trustworthy face."
"Like a film star?" Rajendra asked.
"Too expensive, and not trustworthy for cooking. You need a motherly figure. Or… a doctor. A doctor's endorsement for safety would be powerful."
It was brilliant. He filed it away.
It was then, while sitting in that sunny restaurant, that the System delivered a new, personal message. Not through the Auction network, but via the private, priority channel.
Mad Scientist: Preliminary trials successful. Bio-active compounds from your flora show 34% efficacy in halting cellular necrosis in Subject Gamma-7. This is unprecedented. My need has escalated. I am attaching a permanent, automated procurement contract.
A document appeared in his mind's eye—a stark, scrolling list.
CONTRACT: MS-02 (Evergreen)
Supplier: Rajendra (Earth-Local)
Buyer: Mad Scientist
Items:
Curcuma longa (rhizome, powdered), 50kg/month.
Ocimum sanctum (fresh leaves), 20kg/month.
Azadirachta indica (neem seeds, cold-pressed oil), 10 litres/month.
Zingiber officinale (fresh ginger), 30kg/month.
Delivery: First of every Gregorian month.
Payment: 40 Void-Coins per monthly shipment, paid on delivery.
Term: Indefinite, unless breach.
It was a standing order. A monthly retainer of 40 VC for Indian spices and herbs. It was stability. It was enormous. It was everything he wanted.
But the merchant in him paused. The quantities were large, but manageable for MAKA's growing network. The price, however… 40 VC was substantial, but for a permanent, indefinite contract locking him into being her sole supplier? The first deal was an experiment. This was annexation.
He began to type a counter-proposal, aiming for a higher price or a shorter term.
Before he could send it, a second message arrived from her. This one contained no text. Only a single, direct file transfer. The System prompted: [Receive Visual Feed? (Ambient, Low-Resolution)]
Cautious, he accepted.
An image, grainy and washed in a sickly green light, imposed itself over his vision of the restaurant. He saw a laboratory, but unlike any on Earth. Crystalline structures pulsed with internal light on shelves. In the center, a transparent isolation tank held a creature. It was vaguely humanoid, but its skin was covered in weeping, phosphorescent lesions. Its eyes, wide with pain, stared into nothing. A robotic arm was applying a poultice of what looked like… bright yellow paste. Turmeric.
The feed lasted three seconds. Then it vanished.
The Mad Scientist's message followed, cold and simple.
Mad Scientist: The subject is a sapient, native Sophont. The necrosis is from the Grey-Plague. Your turmeric paste is the only substance in 17 tested dimensions that has shown any non-negative effect. You are not merely a supplier. You are the sole source of a potential palliative for a pandemic. The contract terms are non-negotiable. Accept, or I will be forced to find a less… cooperative supplier on your world.
The implication was a knife at his throat. She wasn't just offering a contract. She was presenting a poisoned chalice. Refuse, and she might use her advanced tech to abduct or coerce someone else on Earth, exposing the whole delicate secret. Accept, and he was bound to her forever, a vital cog in her desperate, inter-dimensional medical project.
The cliff edge wasn't ahead. He was already over it, and the fall had just begun.
He looked at Shanti, who was asking about advertising budgets. He looked at the sunny street outside, full of normal life.
And in his mind, he saw the glowing, suffering eyes of the creature in the tank. He was no longer just selling spices. He was selling hope to a dying world. And the buyer held all the leverage.
He had two choices, both terrible. Become her permanent vassal, or risk an interstellar plague-bringer turning her attention to his unprotected planet.
His fingers hovered over the reply. The System waited.
The taste of his tea had turned to ash.